Under these circumstances, it struck Miss Verity as only tasteful and tactful that her approach to the distracted dwelling should take place unheralded by rumble of wheels or beat of horse-hoofs, should be pitched in a, so to speak, strictly modest and minor key.  On arriving at the front gate she therefore alighted and, bidding her grumpy and streaming flyman take himself and his frousty landau to the Bell and Horns in Deadham village there to await her further orders, proceeded to walk up the carriage-drive under the swaying, dripping trees.

About fifty yards from the gate the drive turns sharply to the left; and, just at the turn, Miss Verity suddenly beheld a tall figure clad in a seaman’s oilskins and sou’wester, coming towards her from the direction of the house.  Youth and good looks—­more especially perhaps masculine ones—­whatever rank of life might exhibit them, acted as a sure passport to Miss Verity’s gentle heart.  And the youth and good looks of the man approaching her became momentarily more incontestable.  His bearing, too, notwithstanding the clumsiness of his shiny black over-garment, had a slightly ruffling, gallantly insolent air to it, eminently calculated to impress her swift and indulgent fancy.

The young man, on his part, calmly took stock of her appearance, as she beat up against the wind, her flapping waterproof cloak giving very inefficient protection to the rather girlish dove-grey cashmere dress, picked out with pink embroidery, beneath it.  At first his eyes challenged hers in slightly defiant and amused enquiry.  But as she smiled back at him, sweetly eager, ingenuously benignant, his glance softened and his hand went up to his sou’wester with a courteous gesture.

“What weather!” she exclaimed.  “How fearfully wet!”—­while her expression testified to a flattering interest and admiration.

“Yes, it’s a wild day,” he said, in answer.  “I expect We’ve seen the last of the sun, anyhow for this week.”

The incident, though of the most casual and briefest, gave a new direction to Miss Verity’s thought.  It pleased and intrigued her, bringing a pretty blush to her thin cheeks.  “Who and what can he be?” she said to herself.  “Where can I have seen him before?” And the blush deepened.  “I must really describe him to Charles and find out who he is.”

This monologue brought her as far as the front door, at which, it may be added, she—­though by no means impatient—­did in point of fact ring twice before the man-servant answered it.  Although Mr. Hordle had the reputation of “being fond of his joke” in private life, in his official capacity his manner offered a model of middle-aged sedateness and restraint.  To-day neither humour nor reserve were in evidence, but a harassed and hunted look altogether surprising to Miss Verity.  He stared at her, stared past her along the drive, before attempting to usher her into the hall and relieve her of her umbrella and her cloak.